


scared to let your guard down

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drugs, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Other, Pale Polyamory, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Caliginous Vacillation, Past Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Quadrant Vacillation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 06:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16738807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: At first glance, it just looked like your regular sort of party. But nah. The two tealbloods snuggling on the couch aren’t necking, for all that one’s got her face pressed in close to his cheek. They’re whispering, their fingers laced together, and it was only when her shoulders hitched that you’d caught those were tears on her face, not fucking highlights.Cu gestures at you sharply to wait.“Cu!”  you yowl, louder this time. There’s an indigo and a rust braiding hair on the countertop. Every third strand, her hand goes skirting across the nape of his neck. When you jerk your chin towards ‘em for Cu to see, he actually fucking chirrs, harsh enough you can feel the vibrations through your feet, and he leans into it.Your face’s as orange as the sun itself. You look away like you’ve been slapped, ears pulling back, and Cu -- all she does is fucking laugh at you, lip curling like you’re being fucking silly. “I told you I’d get you piled,” she says, all full of scorn. “Cousin, you wicked nonbeliever, did you motherfucking doubt?”Riccin goes to a cuddleparty to learn how to pile, freaks out, and calls in a friend for help.





	scared to let your guard down

“You lookin’ for a pale? Don’t worry about it,” Cu Chul had told you. “I’ve got it fucking _covered_.”

This is _not_ what you’d thought she’d meant.

The apartment you’re lounging around is in set up - well, not like a _pale bordello._ You’ve been plenty of places, but you’ve never been in one of those, no matter how many insinuations Dysseu makes. Nah, it just looks like a plain ol’ fucking apartment, really. It’s the same as half the buildings in Lang Kheh. The ceilings are low and wooden, with rafters exposed and cobwebs plagueing the corners. The room’s smokey with the scent of roasting fish, and the stink of the docks from down below keeps wafting in through the cracked windows. The furniture’s faded in the way that everything is, here: it doesn’t matter how many doors you have, or shutters, or clothes. The salt always seems to find a way to bleach it.

It looks perfectly normal, save for the fucking floor. And that’s only on account of the fact…

“Cu,” you hiss, doing your best to keep your ears aloft. Your heart is in your throat, racing away like a rabbit on a track. You can practically feel each jump of your pulse. _“Cu!”_

She looks back at you from where she’s chattering with the host, some green-eyed sprat who scarcely reaches your shoulder. He’s got the sort of face that’d make your eyes linger, usually - the kind of horns that’re made to take a grip - but you’ve got bigger issues. The room’s cute. Even you can admit that. The folks are cute, too.

Significantly less cute is the way some of ‘em are flat-out piling.

At first glance, it just looked like your regular sort of party. But nah. The two tealbloods snuggling on the couch aren’t necking, for all that one’s got her face pressed in close to his cheek. They’re whispering, their fingers laced together, and it was only when her shoulders hitched that you’d caught those were _tears_ on her face, not fucking highlights.

Cu gestures at you sharply to wait.

“Cu!”  you yowl, louder this time. There’s an indigo and a rust braiding hair on the countertop. Every third strand, her hand goes skirting across the nape of his neck. When you jerk your chin towards ‘em for Cu to see, he actually fucking chirrs, harsh enough you can feel the vibrations through your feet, and he leans into it.

Your face’s as orange as the sun itself. You look away like you’ve been slapped, ears pulling back, and Cu -

\- all she does is fucking _laugh_ at you, lip curling like you’re being fucking silly. “I told you I’d get you piled,” she says, all full of scorn. “Cousin, you wicked nonbeliever, did you motherfucking _doubt_?”

“This ain’t a pile, girl!” You have to cant your voice low. The olive’s eyebrows have raised so high, they might as well be hidden in his hair, and he’s stepped back neatly into the crowd. When Cu realises he’s moving, she actually shifts to watch him go, her mouth twisting down into a mouie, and it takes you clearing your throat for her gaze to turn back to you. “This’s a fucking - _fucking_ -”

She sighs. Then she steps in close, reaching up to grasp your braid and tug your face towards her. “ _Cousin_ ,” she drawls, soft and warm, even as her cool breath puffs against your cheek. It’s honey-sweet, in a way that speaks to fucking pre-gaming that she didn’t have the grace to share. “ _Chillax_. ‘ _course_ it ain’t one pile. How the fuck you gonna find somebody if it’s one pile? You think I’m haulin’ you out here, dragging your candy-ass all the way across the region, for one pile? You think I’m lookin’ to bend your knees and haul you into mine?”

“Nah, cuz. You wanted a pile, and I did you a good one. I gave you half a fucking dozen of ‘em.” She gives your braid a tug. “Now,” she says, “it’s up to you what you do with ‘em.”

Then she turns. “Stygia!” she calls out. “ _Stygia_ , babe, where’d you wander off _to_?”

* * *

What you want to do with them, as it turns out, is one hell of a question.

It’s not a pale orgy. Fuck all if it doesn’t feel like one, though. There’s folks curled around each other on every other inch of the floor, sometimes with soft shit under ‘em, more oft not. Someone’s brought out snacks, and stacked the table full of ‘em - but when you take a sniff, they’re straight all the way through, without even so much as a drop of nectar to their name. And it’s hard to be willing to linger, when there’s two fools feeding each other crackers right off of it, fangs brushing fingertips in a way that makes your throat fill with bile.

Nah, it’s just a fucking cuddlefest, is all. It’s more’n a dozen goddamn strangers, linking hands and rubbing cheeks like they’ve got no need to pay mind to all the eyes watching. Once you’re past the disquiet of it all, you can see why Cu hauled you here, and how she’d figure things would go. When you drift over to an empty bagchair, one with just enough sopor to let your breath hang free from your chest when you lay down in it, it chills you out enough that you can actually watch.

And there’s plenty of strangers like you here, trolls with eyes wide enough to see the blood-hue curling the exteriors. They roam like wayward notes across the chorus line, trying to find any place they might fucking fit in. And for the most part, it works. Is there anything more pathetic than a lost soul? You’ve always fallen for the wrong end of the square, for that. Some of the drifters are handsome enough, but there’s nothing about these sorry fucks that makes you want to lay palm on their faces, of all places.

Plenty disagree, though. And there’s something roughly satisfying about the way folks look as they start up conversations and split off into their piles. But you don’t _get it._ You’ve _never_ gotten pale, when it comes down to it. What lure is there in the cup of a palm? What _reprieve_ can be found in something so fucking mild as another fuckers _words_? When you’ve been upset, the only thing that’s ever soothed you is distraction. You bury yourself in work, or in song, or in chasing down Kindra’s ferrety ass, burying your body in his couch and your face in his videos. Talking’s always just dragged for you, like sandpaper across your very soul. Even with Vide, even in ash, where every words sharp with contempt, and every question you ask is done with an eye towards the solution –

– well. You can _do_ ash. It’s just harder to let folks do you, you guess.

But even trolls that look like they’re having that problem are getting past it. Oh, you’ve watched pale vids. Who the fuck hasn’t? You and Sipara watched Raphae’s entire catalogue, once, shrieking and shoving every time he’d come onto the screen, just so you’d fucking know. But this’s _different_. In the videos, everything’s always so fucking _fake_. You don’t need to have ever touched a pile to know when shit’s too theatrical, too expressed, too fucking _genuine_ to ever be real.

Folks here are hesitant. It’s not just about touch: it’s about asking _questions_ , and your gaze’s especially caught on a little teal and jade, sitting across from each other in the corner. Their legs are folded. Their hands are prim. There’s no room for their knees to so much as fucking brush, or their hands to touch, and every move is deliberate. You read the twitch of the jades lips as she asks if she can touch the other’s hand.

And when the teal murmurs _no_ , she slides into the next question, as seamlessly as if the rejection never even struck her as a bother. They’re talking lusii. They’re talking _family_ , the jades crechemate down in the caverns that ain’t clade nor quad, and it feels almost like you shouldn’t be watchin’ this. There’s something intimate about it, more, even, then the teals curled around each other like they’ll die if separate. But you can’t bring yourself to look away.

Not until someone nudges your boot sharp, and someone says, amused: “- like what you’re seeing?”

The troll standing in front of you is short, and round, and rust, from head to toe. Her skin’s so pale that it’s flushed in places with the colour, mottled hydrant bright at the tip of her ears, and her eyes are  almost a perfect match to Sipara’s. So’s her face, and her hips, and –

– her bust isn’t. Blessed fucking Messiahs, her bust ain’t, and thank every saint in history for that. But then you rip your eyes right the fuck back up, because goddamn if it isn’t that kind of a party, no matter how impressive it is. “Just taking in the _views_ , sister,” you drawl, lolling your head back, just to ensure that your gaze stays where it ought. “Tryin’ to get a feel for this shit. Wicked crazy, yeah?”

“I don’t know. I like it.” She shrugs, clasping her hands in front of her and rolling them to stretch, palms-out. She’s got tiny-ass hands. Soft as shit, from the looks of it: she ain’t the type of troll to work, you take it, at anything worth workin’. “They’re fun. Is this your first time?”

“Yeah.” You pause. It seems like you ought to say more, from the way she’s looking at you, so you add: “- boss said I ought to come, so I did.”

She blinks at you. “.. your boss took you to a pale party? Really? That’s, uh -” With a snort, she rolls her shoulders up, glancing away. “That’s kind of weird, sorry,” she admits, amused. “And, like, kinky? _Wow_. My boss just asks if we want, like, lunch, but I guess this is, like, also kind of like _work place bonding –”_

“It’s not like _that_ ,” you snap, jolting up hard enough that the bag nearly spills behind you. The idea of you and Cu in a pile - you’d be lying if that horrifying thought hadn’t struck you, when you’d first walked in, but no. _Absolutely_ fucking not. The thought of piles strike you as nasty at the best of times. Piling with one of the _priests_ -

Chiloa had said that voodoos aren’t there for fucking therapy. They’re a punishment. They’re a way of keeping the population under control, and for correcting bad behaviours, and that’s the reason they had no call to work on indigoes. You’d scoffed at him then, still fresh off the high of Raphae fixing your shit, but - you can almost see what he means when you think of crawling into a pile with one of the clowns. Of the risk that they might just reach past your cheek, and straight into your goddamn mind.

Cu would do that. Cu wouldn’t even _hesitate_ , anymore than Raphae ever did with Ico, or with Iphige, or shit, probably even with you.

The rustblood was laughing, at first, but her mirth dies in her throat as she takes in your expression. It must be doing something queer, because her expression softens. “Aw, _man_. Wait, I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Are you -”

She pauses, wets her lips. “Do you actually, like, _want_ to be here?” she asks, gentle, and she watches you for your response.

It’s a good question, really, because you don’t quite know the answer.

The silence sits. She’s content to just watch you, for all that there’s unease building in her shoulders, the lines of her neck. If you said no, would she go and fight Cu on your account? This little slip of a troll, with her flat orange eyes and her frame that’s more fat than muscle?

“.. I didn’t get hogrustled,” you say, and it’s close enough to a lie that it sits sour on your tongue. So you pat the bag next to you instead. “But shit’s a story, if you want to talk about it.”

As far as solicitations go, you haven’t said shit that stilted since you were four fucking sweeps and still tongue-tied over Sipara goddamn Nzinga. It’s a marvel that she doesn’t turn her back and walk the fuck away. You would’ve! What sort of an image do you make right now, sprawled the fuck out on this bag, your limbs askew and your face every shade of discomfort? It’s not the sort of sight you’d go for. There’s being pitiable, and then there’s being _pathetic_ , and you’ve never swung towards the latter. There’s nothing to make your nook wither shut like a goddamn pityparty.

But this ain’t about bulges, or nooks, or anything close to the either of ‘em. And this girl’s better at remembering that shit than you, because she cocks her head to the side, eyes considering, before she takes a seat next to you on the bag. She’s small enough that she fits perfect against the crook of your arm, her hip a dead ringer for the curve of your ribs. And she’s warm enough that you actually lean in.

“You’re _cold_ ,” she says, surprised, shifting in nearer. “What caste are you? And what’s your name, not-hogrustled?”

“Riccin Kayata,” you say, and that earns you another laugh afore you can continue.

“I said your _name_! Not your age, chrome, and ID. I’m Harley. Harley Boston, if we want to be formal. And, for the record, I’m ten. You’re..” She pauses, tilts her head to the side. Her hair’s long, thick, and heavy enough that it’s pulling what ought to be tight curls loose. The cascade of it on your shoulder ought to be a little much. There ain’t a fucking purpose to this. You’re not getting laid.

But it’s nostalgic. The scent of coconut and shea’s familiar as heartache to you, and you don’t bother to try not breathing it in. “You’re nine,” she tries, squinting. Then she reaches out, presses her hand to your neck, slow enough that it’s a question.

Her thumb brushes the steady pulse of your neck, gentle as a kiss. “And teal?” she hazards. “I don’t think you’re _jade_ , sorry.” Her fingers trail the line of your throat. “You’re a little big to be a jade.”

“Nine’s right. And castes as good a guess as any, sister,” you say, because ain’t it true? It’s hard to say you’re _yellow_. What is yellow, save the chrome in your veins and the spark in your eyes, when you don’t have the colour, you don’t have the size, you don’t even have the _heat_  of your goddamn peers?

You don’t have the fucking life of a yellow. You’ve spent the last nine sweeps swathed in blue, and there’s barely been a night you haven’t played the part of one. You’ve tried playing yellow. You’ve _tried_ wearing your chrome, and flashing your symbol, and it’d felt like a lie, all the way until you’d re-dabbed your paints.

Ain’t saying 

“We’ll call you a cusp, and be done with it,” she decides. “I’m a cusp, too, y’know? Brown and maroon, right dab in the center. The cavern couldn’t decide what I was properly, so they just said -”

“Might as well round up?”

“Exactly!” Her smile’s full of fangs, and - _oh_. The sight of ‘em makes you pause, because you thought they’d be sharp, but nah. They’re small and nubby, uneven in their spacing, not near as flat as Pheres’s, but coming awful near. “How’d you guess?”

.. of _course_ they’d be nubby. The fuck were you thinking? (You know what you were thinking - of who - and you could hate her for it.) “Just a guess,” you lie, because apparently, it’s just becoming a goddamn habit.

Harley doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t seem to know, and that’s for the best, really, ‘cause you’re sick enough with the knowledge of it. Is _this_ what a pile is? Flub after flub comin’ out of your mouth, ‘cause you’ve got the wrong kind of girl stuck in your fucking head? This ain’t _Sipara_ , no matter how close she looks, or how familiar she smells. This’s _Harley_ , angling for a different kind of quadrant already, and it’s the rankest sort of disrespect you’d ever mix up the two.

To her, and to _yourself_. You’re better than quadrant smearing. You’re better than a whole lot of things, and weren’t you raised to always keep that shit in mind?

“Tell me about yourself,” you tell her, half an order, and at least she’s happy enough to oblige.

She tells you about her lusus, and her quadrants, and her problems back hive as she traces the lines in your throat. The girl can’t hold the fuck _still,_  but you can’t complain, not when the warmth of her blood is seeping into you like moonlight. “And that’s how we met! Unfortunately, like.. my kismesis _still_ hates my matesprit, even though it’s been perigees,” she admits, “because I think they used to pail? But they won’t tell me. I think, like, they’re worried I’ll get jealous. Why would I get jealous? That’d be stupid..”

And at least, this sort of thing, you know how to respond to. It’s like creche natter. Folks know you’re always in and out of relationships. You’re a fucking expert on the ways trolls work, and it’s easy to dredge up the sort of responses she’s after. What you’re _sure_ she’s after, because she’s collapsing more ‘n more bonelessly against your side, and she’s letting you wind your fronds into her hair, playing with the oil-sleek curls and tugging at the strands. Between the warmth of her, and the smell, and the steady, breathy thrum of her purr once your claws hit her hornbed..

It’s relaxing. Oh, you’re still stiff, but it’s not as bad as you figured it ought to be. It’s downright _pleasant_ , in a sleepy sort of way, which’s why you’re surprised when she lifts her head and says, all at once: “- oh, but we’re not talking about _you_.”

You blink at her. She was tucked into your side. But now she sits up in a waft of jojoba, shrugging her hair over her shoulders as she leans forward, braces her hands on her knees. “I want to hear about you, too, Riccin,” she says, earnest. Her ears flick up. They’re long, angular things, rounded to your points, just as familiar as the rest of her. “If you want to talk about yourself.”

You know how a pile works. It ain’t like you’ve got much to talk about, but you know how one works. And sitting here - relaxed, almost, listening to her purr - it almost feels like it could work. “Alright,” you say. Isn’t the point of this that you’re supposed to try? Ain’t this why Cu’d hauled you out here? You’re not some rustcushion, to handle her business and refuse to let her at your own.“Alright, girl. Where the fuck do I start?”

A moment later, she’s climbing on top of you.

Harley tucks herself into your lap, neat as any meowbeast. Sitting like this, her shoulder fits neatly into the slope of your ribs. Her chin settles into your collarbone, her cheek cushioned against the hollow of your throat. When you swallow, she’s near enough that it’s fucking hard - and maybe this is serendipidity, the perfect way her body fits against yours, and the way you can’t seem to ignore that. “Start at the beginning,” she demands. “I want to hear about your pupahood! Your adolescense. Like, your awful, weird _pre-molt sweeps._ Your _darkest secrets_! Oh, don’t choke, I’m just, like, _joking_ , I’m - ah -”

You spit out a chunk of her hair, clearing your throat, and then you push her head down, gentle, so the masses farther from her face. She shrieks, jolting back when she realises, then pivots to face you. Her face’s gone as bricky as a stop sign, practically shining in the dark. “Oh _no_ ,” she wails. “I’m so sorry, holy _shit_.” She’s going redder and redder, moment by moment. If anymore blood comes flooding to her face, you think, it’ll just up and explode.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You reach up and rest your palm on her cheek, gentle as you can. “ _Shoosh_ ,” you say, a little rough, but maybe it works anyway, because she stills, staring at you.

You haven’t really stopped to appreciate Harley’s face before. It’s all freckles and pigment, skin pale enough to set all of that to stark relief. Her eyes, even wet, are bright as a sign outside. She’s _adorable_ , is the thing, from the tip of that button nose to the soft jab of her chin. It’s striking you that she might be one of the cutest trolls you’ve ever fucking laid eyes upon, and she’s soft, too. In her features, to her neck, to the hands she presses on your shoulders, to the body she’s got curled against yours.

She leans in close, dropping her forehead against yours. This close, you can’t stop thinking of all the ways she’s pressed against you. That bust, you have to admit, remains fucking amazing. “You’re so _nice_ ,” she says, voice hitching in a laugh. “Even if I did just make you eat hair. Especially when! Thanks, dude. And, like, despite the choking attempt, I wasn’t lying! I do want you to tell me everything.”

“Girl,” you say, “I’ll tell you _anything_.”

Because you would. Shit, you _will_. Pressed up against you like this, you can’t think of a single way you’d ever fucking deny her. You’ve always liked softer trolls! You can see the beauty in all sorts - you _have,_  you’ve never been real picky in your partners. But Sipara was your first quadrant. She’s always been your most distinctive one, and some nights, when you see a troll shaped just right, it feels like she ruined you on everything else.

On _everyone_ else, because Harley looks close enough that -

_\- that_ -

Oh, _fuck_.

You don’t mean to be rough when you push her off! She yelps all the same, her ears yanking down like she’s been shot. “Um!” she says, loud, but your face’s heating up to match the chrome in hers. Oh, fuck. You’re not - but nah, you apparently are. Mind over matter, when push comes to shove, apparently means jack and goddamn _shit._ “Hey! Riccin! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” When your voice cracks, you wish you could rip it out and strangle yourself with it. In lieu of that, your face just darkens all at once, flooding with the ugliest shade of goddamn gold this side of the spectrum as you turn on your heel, _away_  from her. Oh, god, you’re a quadrant smearer. You’re a fucking deviant. _Leave some room for the Messiahs,_ Chiloa’d always said, but you never -

“I’m fine! I just - I - I need to go,” you blurt out, and you flee.

* * *

There’s three bathrooms, and the first you find, you bolt inside and _slam_ the door shut.

You wash your face with the coldest water you can manage, like that’ll do anything to still the blood flooding it. You catch the back of your neck, too, and then, upon consideration, you splash water on the rest of you too.

And then you splash _colder water_ on the rest of you, just to make sure. You don’t know how the fuck your bulge got so interested in a goddamn pile, no matter how warm the girl crawling on you was, but you’re not dealing with it right now. It can just join the list of things that you ain’t dealing with, like the fact you can’t stop thinking of Sipara’s fucking face.

You hate this. You hate this _entire fucking quadrant._ It ain’t like you need Cu to leave: you could just go, _right now, a_ nd nobody would ever be the wiser. Nobody’d ever care. Go try pale, everyone’d told you, and you did! You’d _tried it,_ and you’d proven you’re not anything more than a fucking quadrant smearing fuck, too stupid for quadrants _, too stupid_ to _remember_ that there’s a difference between _paling_ and _pailing_.

You don’t see why _anybody_ would ever want to do this shit. It’s _stupid_ , and it’s _complicated_ , and you just -

When someone knocks on the door twice, you don’t bother to give more than a snarl. It cracks open all the same, and when you don’t sound off again, it pushes all the way, because of course you forgot to lock it. ‘course you did!

The fellow in the doorway’s just scarcely smaller than you, just big enough that he has to turn his chin up to see you, but not so huge it feels like a threat. His eyes are soft and heavily lidded, with lashes dank with ink. Under them, the colour’s purple, and his face’s bare.

‘ _course_ he’s a faithless wretch. Have you ever met a fellow you liked that wasn’t? And you do like him, you think, just from the way he’s looking at you. He’s soft-lipped as a kitten, his ears tilted back in the most wretched kind of acquiescence. Ain’t ever done anything for you, motherfuckers scrapping for your attention, but there’s something to be said, isn’t there, in this sort of wordless request? “Hey, dude,” he says, and his ears tilt, apologetic enough to match his words. “Um. Sorry to interrupt, but, like.. you okay? Couldn’t help but see, like, you seem kind of stressed.”

“ _Kind_ of stressed,” you repeat back, and his lip quirks up.

“Maybe stress’s an understatement? I’ve been to a few of these, but..” He’s all lean-limbed and sharp-edged, gentleness wrapped up in a bag full of knives. It’s a queer combination, but something about it feels comfortable in a way you don’t quite grok. When the light catches his horns, thin and high in the fluorescent light, part of you balks –

– but the warmth in your chest ain’t got nothing to do with that kind of fondness, this time around, and there’s nothing in the planes of his face that sets you to thinking of Dysseu. Nah. Motherfucker’s gray-eyed and young, with cheeks just round enough to leave a name unspoken at the tip of your tongue. “II don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody straight up bolt before,” he says, gentle.

If life was a pale porno, you think, this would be the defining moment: him, standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, sun-bright against the dim of the room behind him. You, half-lounging over the sink, water still dripping down off your nose, watching him through the mirror. There’s a sort of distance to be found in the abstract of him watching you, ‘n you watching him, all distorted through the heavy lense of the glass. You don’t _want_ ‘em touching you. But maybe you could talk, him leaning against the far wall and you sticking to this one, keeping to the mirror.

_Keeping_ facing the mirror. You fucking hate bodies sometimes.

His face’s soft. His voice is easy. His hands are long-fingered and soft. When he lifts one up, palm bare, and places it ever so carefully to the back of his neck, the gesture’s so calculated to draw the eye that you have to fucking admire it.

Maybe you could almost stand a pacifying touch, if it came from hands like those - but his claws are short and blunt. _Kindra_ always takes care of his claws. They’re meticulously filed and polished. They look fucking refined, with no rough edges, and no cuticles running astray. This brother looks sloppy in comparison.

If some motherfucker can’t even take care of himself, how the fuck do they expect you to let them try to take care of you?

“I’m fine,” you say, clipped, and that easy smile falters just a touch.

“Alright! Well, if you want to talk, let me know.” He pauses. “I hope you feel better,” he says, earnest enough that it just misses pointed, and he pulls the trap door shut behind him as he goes.

This time, you lock it.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, you decide you can’t call Kindra.

You just _can’t_. What the fuck would he think of you? Brother practically fainted when you’d pulled out the auricular pale videos, and that’d all been sound: some girl shooshing in your ear, someone rustling a bag of chips, someone pretending they’re brushing out your hair or scraping you off the concrete. When you and Sipara had watched Raphae’s filmography, he’d only lasted until the first piling scene, and then he’d shrieked like he’d been fucking shot. He hadn’t been able to look your clademate in the eye for _perigees_ , never mind fucking _Shepherd_.

If you told him you were at a party, he’d want to know what sort. If you told him that you were at a fucking cuddle party, there’d be questions. And if he found out why you just _fled_ the _goddamn pile_ he’s been pushing you towards –

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

There’s only one other person you can call.

Pheres’s muggy when he answers the phone, five calls in a row. “You been drinkin’?” you bark, and you can practically hear him startle.

“No!” Messiahs fucking above, a brother gets so defensive. He should, the little lush. “Why would I be doing that?” he says, waspish. “ _Honestly_! I have hobbies, Riccin. And I was on a date.”

You’ve seen the sort of trolls he goes after. You roll your eyes towards the ceiling, mouthing a curse as you slouch back against the sink. If you close your eyes, with the phone against your ear, the din in your soundflaps almost makes him sound like he’s in the room with you. “What, a good date?”

“.. no,” he admits. “They’re a bit of a bore. And they’re old. I don’t know how I used to do it! Or - no, that’s not fair. They’re only fifteen sweeps..”

“Then they can hit sixteen. I gotta steal you for a bit, little rust.” He makes a noise like he’s going to protest, so you drop your voice, add in that plainative kind of purr that’s always snatched his attention right to you: “- it’s an _emergency_.”

Sure enough, it works.

Two minutes later, you almost wish it fucking hadn’t.

Pheres has to be the most expressive fucker you know. You don’t need pictures to know what he’s up to: you can hear his eyebrows raise, in a queer sort of way, as he leans forward. Is there a cord twining around his finger? Nah, you decide. It’s like as not his hair. “You’re at a _pale orgy,”_ he says, marveling like this is the best gift you’ve ever fucking given him. “And you’re telling _me_ , Riccin? _Really_? **Heavens**! I know you’re a little, ah - mm - _adventurous_ , but isn’t this.. a little _much_? Even for you?”

“Like you ain’t done _worse_ ,” you sniff. There’s some regret in your pan! But not much. Pheres’s contempt is an easy sort of comfort. Poor brother: it’s hard being that small, you think, and you know there’s never been naught personal in his constant fucking teething. “ _Twice over_ , fucker.”

“I have _not_!”

“Really?” You laugh. “Really? You gonna play that on me, little rust? ‘cause, shit. Last I checked, you were still dressing up as a heiress, brother, and playing out all sorts of fucked up -”

His breath catches. Then the phone clatters. There’s a clap of air right over the speaker, like he dropped it, and - yeah, motherfucker did, because there’s the clatter. Claws scrabbling on plastic. Then:

_“We’re not talking about that!”_ he shrills, several octaves higher than you like to deal with.

There goes the regret. There’s something so satisfying about getting him riled like this. You could’ve gone flush for this boy, you think, if he’d ever been willing to fucking commit. “No _shit_ , Dysseu,” you purr. “I’m talking about it. You’re shrieking.”

_“I will hang up –”_

“ _Shoosh_ ,” you mock, and this time around, the sound comes almost natural. And the spluttering he makes in response soothes all the feathers you didn’t even know were fucking lifted. “Little rust, I am at a goddamn party, getting up to all _sorts_ of sin. You tryin’ to _hedge_ in on this? Get a little _pacification_? Because _my_ , oh _my_ , I just don’t know if I’m ready for that sort of goddamn _commitment_ ‘tween the two of us –”

The hollow ring of the dial tone really, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised you at all.

At least he picks up when you call back. “If you try and get - get - _raunchy_ with me,” he snaps, all ruined dignity dressed up in a wet cat’s sulk, “then I will hang up again! _See if I don’t!”_

“Nobody’s gonna get raunchy, brother.” Soothing Pheres’s easy. All it takes is the right tone, really. You’ve never met a troll long for serenity the way he does. “And I’ll set aside the _teasin_ ’. I just..”

He longs for serenity, and he’s good at bringing it. You’ve seen the way he’s hauled that feral of his under his thumb, and Dauths, and Nzinga, and every other scoundrel he’s ever encountered. He puts on his faces, and he says whatever folks need to hear, and then he cleans up the pieces afterwards. It’s the sort of thing that _ought’ve_ netted him more than dates.

It’s the thing that has, but it’s no wonder Dysseu can’t keep a quadrant. Motherfucker’s like a caterpillar: if you want to get to the soft bits, you got to reach between all the thorns. It’s the sort of personality that only appeals ‘til the first time somebody gets stabbed.

But your skin’s always been too rough for his thorns. “It is an emergency,” you say, letting your voice drop towards a chirr. “Can you help?”

He only hesitates for a moment. “.. I was getting tired of them, anyway,” he decides. “Give me a moment.”

Ten minutes later, there’s wind in the phone and he’s walking. “So you wanted to get piled?”

“Maybe.” You’re fumbling in your pocket. You’d packed a cigarette and lighter, just in case things turned out wretched, and - there! Dried sopor’s never been your thing, but it’ll do in a pinch, and while the familiarity of Pheres’s nipping has been soothing most of your nerves, the first drag is what really lets you ease back against the wall, and all the way to the floor. You pull your knees up against your chest, and you breathe deep. “I don’t know what the _fuck_ I want, Pheres. Thought shit was going well, and then it was just -”

“ _ **Sproing**_?” he says, helpfully, and then dissolves into titters a few seconds later. Going by his fucking hysteria, you can imagine the hand gesture he just made, for all that you wish you couldn’t. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, that was - ah - _mmm_. **_Unhelpful_**. That was _deeply_ unhelpful, wasn’t it? Heavens. Don’t be so - it - well, it doesn’t mean you’re a _deviant_ , Riccin, it just.. _happens_ , sometimes. You didn’t follow it up by pailing her, right? I mean, you’re on the phone with me. I should you aren’t. Please tell me you’re not, actually.”

You should’ve brought something stronger than a cigarette. “I don’t _quadrant smear_ ,” you snap.

“Oh! Oh, of course you don’t. What was I _thinking_? Just because - well. That doesn’t mean you’re _smearing_. That’s what I was saying.” He pauses to take a breath. There’s still laughter chasing the ends of his words, but he’s recovering, now, and when he speaks, it’s evened out. “All you need is practice,” he says, brisk. “That’s all! So we can practice. _Platonically_ , of course.”

“.. practice piling,” you say.

“Yes! It’s like - oh, don’t give me that _tone_ , Riccin. And put your ears down! You look like an exclamation mark when you do that.” Begrudgingly, you drop your ears, and take another drag of your cigarette. “It’s like - oh - practicing _pailing_ , or _kissing_ , or anything else. It’s perfectly normal. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just.. two trolls, helping each other out.”

“Platonically,” you say.

“ _Platonically_ ,” he says, cheerful. “I’ve slept with you entirely too many times for me to want to actually pap you, don’t worry.”

That’s fair enough, you decide. When has Dysseu ever fucking quadblurred? Sure, he bites, but brother bites at everyone. He’d never swung properly pitchways on you, all the times the two of you were together. And he’s got a point. You’ve fucked around with plenty of trolls without it ever actually meaning nothing. There’s been a lot of folks that you’ve tried checking serendipity against, but it’s not like it’s always been about that.

Sometimes, it’s just been about stress relief. A lot of the times, really, even if you hadn’t quite realised it at the time. “.. alright,” you say, and then he says, prompt: “- alright! So tell me about yourself. That’s how piles start, you know, typically. One of the participants has a problem, and the other solves it.”

He waits.

“.. are you going to say something, Riccin?” he prompts, and you blow your next exhale of smoke straight into the speaker. “That - whatever that was - is not an answer. Or are you saying you’re just, ah - full of hot air? That’s remarkably plausible, but that’s not really something I can solve, you know.”

“I don’t got anything personal to say,” you huff. That’s a lie. You’re batting a hundred tonight on immoral fucking behaviour, and Orpheo’d disown you in a heartbeat if he knew. Good thing you’re not plannin’ on tellin’ him. And that’s - Messiahs fucking above, that’s another goddamn lie. So you correct yourself: “I ain’t got nothing I feel like saying.”

You can practically picture Pheres’s reaction. There’s that poignant pause, like he’s hoping it’ll bait you out an answer, then he _huffs_. There’s a crack of static that’s probably him tossing his hair. The rustle of cloth that must be him bouncing up on his toes. Then he hits the ground, heels cracking neatly onto - is that pavement? Must be. “ _Fine_ ,” he says, “then I’ll start. Did I.. well.” He pauses. For a moment, you think the phone’s gone dead.

Then he says, so casual that your ears prick: “- did I ever tell you why I hate Iconic?”

You’d caught on. The name’d come up a few times, and each time, Pheres’s been.. well. He wears his masks, but it’s easy enough to see the cracks in ‘em, if you know what you’re lookin’ for. He’s always gotten stiffer when the name came up, when he’d seen something that shade of yellow in your hive. And you knew he’d known him, back in the day.

Sipara had always refused to let you near her moirail. But she’d never taken the same precautions with Ico, and you’d heard snips and pieces of him over the sweeps, just enough to paint a picture that turned out not quite accurate. Ico’d called him a frail slip of a troll, the sort of fucker always one day from a culling. He’d said he was the sort of fickle, insipid fool that didn’t deserve more’n being paint, and he’d said he’d chased after pails like he didn’t realise he belonged in them.

But Ico’s always been nothing but a mean streak, and you’d known it even then.

“Nah,” you say, and he exhales.

“Right! Well. I hate him, because -” Another pause. His breath rasps. “Well! We slept together. Back before he – well. Before he -”

“- wnet on his murder spree?”

“- yes. That.”

Ico and Pheres is.. you don’t know how to turn over that thought. Something about it sticks. But when you think of his cavern-brooding matesprit from back in the night, with his long hair and the halberd covered in blood.. “Flush,” you say, taking a drag.

“Ah - no. _Pitch_ ,” he murmurs, and you choke on your cigarette.

He waits patiently while you splutter, your coughs echoing through the bathroom and his receiver. It takes longer to recover than you’d like. Your stomach’s curling in on itself, and there’s bile rising in your throat, more than just the burn of the sopor going down your windpipe. You were never a proper auspistice, the way that Sipara was. You couldn’t handle Ico, the way she did, and so you never really tried.

He’d never hurt _you_. He’d never have hurt Sipara, either - up until the fall of Wisdom, that was the only fucking thing you’d ever been certain of towards him. But it’d only ever been you. He was cruel to Raphae with the same ease that he breathed, and he and Iphige treated each other like their presence only opened up old wounds.

And his pitches..

Sipara’d always stopped him from culling them, at least.

“ ** _Pitch_** ,” you rasp. “Pheres, _what the fuck?”_

“And I was _seven_ ,” he says, all in a rush. “And I didn’t think - _well!_ I thought he was attractive, and we could be quadrants, maybe, and he’d be less - _him_ , if we were. All the things pupas think, really, because I was _seven and seven eighths,_ and he was _ten_ , and - everyone was _older_ , but they were nicer, usually, after. If I provided a service. The right sort of service. So why wouldn’t he be? And -”

He inhales, a little unsteadily. “It didn’t change _anything_. He just - took _advantage_ , and told me I was still cullbait, after,” he says, brittle bright. “Just to make sure I didn’t get any _ideas_! Isn’t that _something_? And now he works with me, and I have to see his face every night I’m on that campus. I wish he’d died in Wisdom. I’ve told you before - but - I’m sorry he injured your face.”

You don’t know what to do with this information.

“So!” There’s a rustle of movement. Him pushing back his hair, probably, and you can picture it in your head: him bright-eyed at some psibuggy stop, lips thin, his face pulled taut like he’s got Andora’s box clasped in his jaws. “That’s something from me, Riccin. That’s how piles go, usually. One person goes and makes a positive _fool_ of themselves, admitting something _vulnerable_ , and the other one says something comforting.”

“If I could split ‘em open, brother, I would,” you say, and - it’s not right, that your voice is the one going ragged. “That’s - shit, Pheres, that’s _fucked up_. You don’t go pailing seven sweeps.”

“Technically speaking,” he admits, “Meukit’s scarcely older than I was –”

“You’re half a sweep older’n London’s ass.” You really, really should have brought something stronger than a cigarette. You hug your knees, burrowing your face between them as best as you can. It was easy enough to go about solving problems when it was just Harley’s relationships. You don’t - how the fuck is anyone supposed to solve a problem like this?

How the fuck can anyone _solve_ this?

But you’re not supposed to solve it. He’s opening himself up wide, baring out his soul, so you can go and practice, and he even had the grace to give you a fucking script. “Shit’s fucked up,” you rasp. “No two ways about it. He shouldn’t have fuckin’ touched you, brother. Shouldn’t have touched you, and shouldn’t have gone rattlin’ at you in the first place - not even ‘cause you were clade. Shit’s just -” Your rattlereeds are trying to kick off, blur right into your words and run ‘em ragged. “I wish I could cull ‘em for you.”

But at least Pheres sounds a little less sharp, when he answers. “.. I appreciate the thought. Ah. Sincerely.”

“Where was your ‘rail? I mean, what the fuck - Sipa didn’t know?” You’d seen Sipara at seven sweeps. She’s looked the same at seven as she does now, all rounded cheeks and pale scars, but you’ve seen pictures of Pheres, too. You’d known Ico, but..

“She didn’t know,” he says, brisk, “and you aren’t to tell her. It’s none of her business.”

“Don’t you -”

“It’s _none of her business,_ Riccin. This isn’t a discussion.” His voice’s edging up in pitch again, bordering on something shrill, and you don’t know why. But you chirr at him all the same, ears dropping for all that he can’t see them, trying for something apologetic instead of just fucking wretched. And that’s all it takes to deflate him, same as always. “.. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “That was. A bit brisk of me. But _please_ don’t.”

“.. it’s your life, brother.” She didn’t know. That’s a relief, at least. Your girl’s always been a mess. But she’s never been callous, not towards her moirail, for all that she’s been cruel to the rest of you. (But Ico’d never been callous to the two of you, either, until he’d gone and let your face get gashed open.)  “.. you two still talking?”

“No,” he says, steady. “Not for a perigee, now.”

Say something vulnerable and make a fool of himself, he’d said. So you open your eyes. You let your body ooze forward, slow, until you’re laying spread straight on the bathroom floor. The tiles are cold under your back. The smoke trails sopor-green up towards the ceiling, drifting in sticky strands all the way into the vents. “You know why we broke up?” you ask, setting the phone on your chest.

At that distance, his voice’s tinny. “No.”

You can count the cracks in the ceiling. They’ve got stucco in here, unlike the exposed rafters of the rest of the place. It’s old, you think. Older’n anything else about this building. “Found out one of her ex’s was in the culling pits,” you say, slow. “I was seven. So you were six ‘n a half, just ‘bout. And Sipa’d taken to ignoring me, yeah? You probably remember that. Shit, we were on the outs all the time back then, but - that was when it got real, and I thought, _fuck_ , she’s gonna leave the program, and she ain’t _ever_ gonna look back.”

“And I didn’t want her to go. And she said she wasn’t, but - _shit_ , brother, you know Sipara. Better’n anybody else. You know how she is.”

“She lies like she breathes,” he admits.

“Yeah. Y’know what the church rats do? We do everything the jugs ain’t willin’ to waste their times on. We wash, ‘n we clean, ‘n we sing, ‘n we man the culling pits,” you say, and he’s gone quiet.

You watch the smoke. You listen to Pheres breath, and the sound of your own slow exhales, echoed through the phone. It’d be easy to leave it there, you think.

But pale’s about vulnerabilities. Pale’s about saying what needs to be said,  not what you want, and so you say: “- so I took on culling duties for the girl, ‘n I gave Nzinga the footage, after. And she came over, and she tore just about every fucking port out of my back.”

Pheres has gone very quiet.

“It was a little fucked up,” you tell him, and you take a drag.

“I’m sorry she did that,” he finally says. “She’s always - part of it is that -” His voice’s gone strange on you. The sopor’s keeping your anxiety low, and for a moment, you think it’s that.. but nah. His voice pitches up, and then you realise he’s just laughing. “I’m starting to think - we’re all very bad at pitch.”

“Gliese ‘n me are fucking _serendipitous_ ,” you huff, but he’s laughing, each one tinged just short of hysteria, and - fuck it, you’re laughing too, too drained for much more than hysteria. The sopor’s leaving you feeling boneless, and the laughter feels like it’s reeling out the tension that’s laced itself like wires through your body, one inch at a time. “Messiahs fucking above, we’re all goddamn messes.”

“We are. Take a deep breath, Riccin. You sound like you’re choking.” He inhales, slow and deep, and you shift your breathing to match. “There,” he says. “That’s a little better. Sipara.. never mentioned that. She just said you’re dangerous.” A beat. “And you are.”

“I am,” you agree, mild. “But I’m less than she is, little rust, and we both fucking know it.”

“.. you _are_ ,” he admits. “You do know.. the important bits of pale, don’t you? Even if you’ve never had one before?” When you don’t answer, he continues. “You’re supposed to be _kind_. That’s the most important thing, I think. _Kind_ , but.. to the point. You don’t enable them. You aren’t cruel, and you don’t hurt them.. but you make sure they know, when they’re doing something hurtful to themselves or others, and you let them know they can do better, and you will support them in doing better.”

“Wait, brother -”

“Please don’t interrupt me,” he says, firmer than you’ve heard him in perigees, and surprise, more than anything else, quiets you down. “Sipara.. didn’t manage that. I’m not surprised she - _mauled_ you - because. She’s always done that, I think. I stopped her from doing it very much, physically, when I could, but.. you can’t really stop someone, if they really want to do something. She’s only.. well.” He pauses. “She’s only learned better since she met Hadean. I suppose he’s a better moirail than me, in that.”

“And you can’t be unkind, because -” All of the cracks on the ceiling keep joining up into little pits. They’re dark holes in the white of the stucco, big enough for a pinkie or a nail to slide clear on through. It looks ugly. But that’s what happens, you guess. Enough fractures, and bits of a motherfucker are just apt to fall out.

In a ceiling, or in a troll. “Ah. You know my scar?” Pheres’s brisk, matter-of-fact, despite all the shit he’s saying. “She left that back when we were five. She’d just lost her arm, and we were arguing, and.. she wanted to make a _point_.” You wish this wasn’t over the phone. You wish you could see his face right now, because for the first time, you don’t know what he’s thinking. His voice’s so bland and even, like -

\- the first time you’d met him, when he’d thought you might cull him to make a point.

You said you were dangerous. It’s a fact. But you don’t think you’ve ever managed cruel, not for just for the goddamn sake of it, not the way Nzinga does.

“I’d provoked her,” he says, mild, like every word out of his mouth isn’t vile. “And she was hurt, and she was afraid, and she’d just lost everything for me, and she felt as if I didn’t appreciate it. So she wanted to make sure I didn’t do it again. It was unwise of me. I understood it, even then, but - you can’t do that, in pale. It doesn’t _matter_ if you’re only _five_. You can’t slip, and make that sort of mistake, and.. leave someone _afraid of you,_ or it ruins them worse than some mark on their face. It doesn’t heal.”

“You _have_ to be kind. I think that’s the most important part of the quadrant. If you’re going to try it.. if you remember that, you should do fine. You’re not a _bad_ troll. You can be _better_ , but..” He laughs again, but there’s no hysteria, this time. He just sounds as tired as you do.

“Can’t we _all?”_

Your cigarette burns out.

It’s an unceremonious end to your high. You stub the last embers out on the edge of the sink and toss it into the disposal unit, letting the dregs of smoke trail out of your nostrils. “Folks shouldn’t hurt their moirails, Pheres,” you tell him, closing your eyes. You’re tired of staring at cracks, suddenly. “Ain’t gotta lecture me on that shit. Everybody ought to know that. Yours - are just all shit folks, that’s all. And you shouldn’t be dating a fucking _fifteen sweep old,_ either.”

“Did you come for advice,” he sniffs, “or did you come to lecture me?”

“Welcome to the goddamn pile, brother. What can I say? Motherfucker, I pick shit up _fast_.”  You can’t say that you wish he’d been hatched in the program like Kindra. It’s starting to settle in for you that there’s no protection there. Would Chiloa have stepped in between him and Ico, if he’d been a churchrat? Would anybody have stepped ‘tween him and Sipara? Or would it have just been a different set of indignities? “That’s all fucked up. I wish - well, shit, if fishes were wishes, we’d all have slits up to our ears. But wish it hadn’t happened.”

“It’s fine,” he lies, his voice easy, and you guess those really are just part of the pile.

You push yourself up from the floor, all too aware, suddenly, of how filthy it’s likely to be. At this rate, you’re going to have to go hive and wash your fucking scalp. How long’ve you even been down here? “So here’s my lesson plan, _prof_ ,” you drawl, scrubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Since you were so kindly as to drag me through a fucking pile. Pale’s all about.. _shit_. You’re supposedta fucking care about them. What they’re doing, what they’re going through. And you’re supposed to keep ‘em on the right track, and support the motherfuckers all the way through that, not because you have to, or because someone’s got to, but _because_ -”

“- _because_ you want to. Because you love ‘em, and you want the best for ‘em, and you don’t want ‘em getting hurt. Not by anybody else. Not by fucking you,” you bite off, thinking of the groves on his face. A moirail mark, he’d told you, that first night you’d asked, and he’d let you trace the pattern along his skin. “You’re supposed to protect ‘em. And they do the same for you. It balances out. You balance each other out.”

You’ve always disliked the quadrant. But when you think of it like this.. it almost makes a sort of sense, in a way it never did before.

“And you’re not supposed to _engage in conjugal affairs with them_ ,either _,_ ” Pheres chimes up. “Or, ah, non-affairs, I suppose. Activities..? I mean! Sometimes things just happen. Physical contact is very nice, and it’s quite easy to get wires crossed, you know, if you’re not careful. Someone just, oh, _hops on_ your hips, or you slip and fall, and maybe parts become unzipped, and. Well!” He clicks his teeth, all faux-sympathy. “Well! Maybe it’s understandable if, mm, bits of you start getting the wrong idea, and, ah.. how d’you say.. start.. adventuring out from their _phantom zones,_ but..”

“Did you just call your fucking junk a _phantom zone?”_

“We’re not discussing that,” he say, prim as if he hadn’t brought it up himself. But isn’t that always the fucking case? “It is a perfectly accurate euphemism, and I am not discussing it further. You understand what I’m saying here, Riccin. Try not to let people _accost you in personal regions,_ or whatever mishaps you were getting up to, and things ought to go just well. Pale romance does not usually, by the way, involve that sort of positioning. I find a nice over the shoulder cuddle is about as intimate as one really should get! Or just, I don’t know - maybe don’t pale people you’d rather pail…?”

“Present company excluded, of course,” he bites off, amused. “Now! Ah. As cathartic as this was.. I _do_ have to go, now.“ A beat. “And I won’t,” he says abruptly. “Go on another date with this troll. I think - well! You might be right. They are.. maybe. A little old. For me, at least. Ah. Good light!”

By the time you open your mouth, the phone’s sounding off its dial tone.

You put it in your pocket and, standing up, you stretch. If this is what a pile feels like, you.. can see the appeal, almost. It feels like someone dragged you through the ringer. It feels like someone’s stripped a weight off of your shoulders. It’s a strange combination, all together, and one you’ll have to contemplate later, but –

– it’s not a bad one, all things considered.

It gives you things to think about, at least.

But that’s for later. For now, you ought to go and find Cu, and think of how the _fuck_ you’ll explain this to Kindra.


End file.
